I have been told
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: I have been told that time is steady and that it slows for no man. Time does not care for the wishes of the living, instead choosing to march ever onwards down the road until it leaves us all in the dust, looking on with longing, wondering. Why didn't we get to come along? Why were we left behind to watch? Time has not been kind to my mother.


I have been told that time is steady and that it slows for no man. Time does not care for the wishes of the living, instead choosing to march ever onwards down the road until it leaves us all in the dust, looking on with longing, wondering.

_Why didn't we get to come along? Why were we left behind to watch?_

Time has not been kind to my mother, who looks older than she is, her hair limp and greying, the emotion gone from her eyes.

Time has not been kind to my mother, who stares at me with fright, cold fingers clutching my skin as she begs me to never grow up.

Time has not been kind to my mother, who does not recognise my brother or I, too busy believing that the world is out to get her and that her children are just fanciful, possibly dangerous, shadows.

My mother has lost her mind. I don't know when I realised that, but I know it is true. She struggles to connect reality with that of her nightmares, instead lingering in a land that is not quite here.

Some days, she is still sixteen, with a bow in her hands, standing over a girl's body as she points as arrow at a boy's head.

Some days, she is still twenty, watching as Rosalie Snow is flogged by angry people, demanding her blood in place for that of those who they have lost.

Some days, my mother is eleven years old, sitting by the door as she waits for a father who will never come back, because he is dead.

Dead, like my aunt. Dead, like so many of my parent's friends. Dead, like my mother's heart, which has given up on trying to carry a beat for a woman too weak to keep going.

I do not know the Katniss Everdeen that they speak of in class, the one who was so brave and bold, the Katniss who is the one who led an entire rebellion and freed a nation.

I _do, _however, know the Katniss Everdeen who used to put me to bed with a song each night, but would always end up crawling into bed with me and begging me to not leave her.

(She always called me _Rue, _then.)

I know the Katniss Everdeen who used to take Rye and me to a park near our house, and we'd rest on a green hill for hours, just staring up at the clouds and talking about our day.

(She told us later that underneath that hill were graves.)

I know the Katniss Everdeen who would look my father in the face and tell him she _hated _him for what he had done, because it wasn't _fair _that he had left her.

(I don't think I've ever seen Dad look more hurt than he did then.)

Occasionally, things are normal and we can act like we're a _proper _family who only have the problems that _proper _families have, like picking dinner or talking about school.

Those are always the nice days, when I come home and it is _Mom _who greets me, not _Katniss_. I don't much like _Katniss_, who is all harsh words and tears and frantic movements.

But _Mom _is soft and encouraging, with gentle touches and questions about how my day went. _Mom _does not make Rye run to his room with a pained look on his face.

Is it…_bad _of me to sometimes wish that it wasn't my mother who had survived those Games? Does that make me a _bad _daughter?

Because I'd rather not exist at all-I'd rather my mother be dead-than to wake up in the night and hear screams of terror coming from my parent's bedroom.

It isn't worth it, not when the mornings after involve my mother coming out of her room with red eyes and a shaky smile, offering to make us pancakes even though her hands shake as she cooks.

Or, worse than that, on the mornings when she doesn't come out at all and my dad tells us to be extra quiet because Mom isn't really feeling very good this morning, so if we could be nice and quiet as we get ready, then that would be _great_.

I have no explanation for why my mother is not normal, or why she can be fine one moment and screaming the next.

I have no explanation for why my father shakes with fear whenever I come home late, or why he yells at me to be more responsible whenever I get hurt.

I have no explanation for why life is the way it is…this is simply the existence I have been given, and I have struggled to make sense of it as best as I can.

Because I have been told that time is steady and that it slows for no man, and this much I know to be true: the world is not the kind place I wish it could be.

It is heartless and cold and gives no concern to mothers who stammer and cry instead of tucking their children into bed at night with kind words and kisses.

The world gives no concern to young men who grew up without a father, because their father died before they were even born.

The world gives no concern to children who don't understand why an entire generation flinch at the mere _mention _of the phrase 'Hunger Games' or 'Reaping'.

The world gives no concern to the fact that I only just want my mother to better and to stop being sick and sad all the time, because it is killing her and tearing me up inside.

But time is steady and slows for no man; we are only here for the ride, struggling along as well as we can, and should we drown in the heartless river of time, then no one mourns the loss of just another person for whom the odds were not in favour.


End file.
